


Nature

by exyking



Series: Monthly Ficlet Collection [2]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alpha Laurent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Degrading Praise, Denial, Forced Heat, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Male Lactation, Milking, Name-Calling, Omega Damen, references to whipping, set during book one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exyking/pseuds/exyking
Summary: Laurent snorts, drinking in Damen’s horror like it is something to be savoured.“I have done nothing,” he says, “but aided nature in its course.”





	Nature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SocialistMemes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialistMemes/gifts).



> This is for my amazing, incredible, saint of a patron who waited a ridiculous amount of time for this and whose patience I can't adequately express my appreciation for. I'm so sorry it took so long, it was a monster to wrangle, and it's a miracle I finally managed to beat it into submission 😂 It's definitely not a kink I've ever dabbled in, but I hope I've done it justice, and that you enjoy it xx 
> 
> If i've missed any major tags, drop me a line!

Damen is tied from the ceiling, his arms stretched high above his head, the unforgiving metal of his golden cuffs digging cruelly and painfully into the skin of his wrists. His ankles are similarly tied, fastened to bolts in the floor by a length of chain, deliberately short so that his legs are forced to spread uncomfortably wide. He can barely hold his weight on his toes in this position. The strain on his arms, and by extension his freshly whipped back, is considerable. 

What is worse is the ring gag mercilessly prying his mouth open. He can feel spit dripping running down his chin and chest in sticky, cold rivulets, unable to swallow it back. It’s dehumanising, to be forced to drool like nothing more than an ill-behaved bitch. His jaw has long since started to ache.

He is naked, too, though that is not unusual. Aside from flimsy lace and barely there cloth, Damen hasn’t worn clothes since his arrival in Vere.

He thinks it must have been a few hours since the guards brought him here, judging by the dulled pain of his back, striped once more with a fresh dozen lashes. It aches constantly now, stinging when he twists or stretches, a hot, lancing pain down his spine. The skin has broken; he can feel the tackiness of dried blood pulling on the open wounds when he shifts, a result of the fact that he’s never allowed to heal from the previous beating before the next is delivered, no matter how bad, nor how stern a glare the physician directs at his tormentors.

His body aches from the efforts he had exerted against being tied to the post. He would not go meekly to it, no matter how hard and how often they beat him. He has, however, learned to stop struggling while the lashes are delivered. Laurent, watching ever silently, always in Damen’s sight, wouldn’t let the guard stop until Damen remained still and quiet under the whip, obediently taking each blow. After the first time, when Laurent had had him whipped until he had collapsed in exhaustion and agony, Damen had come to realise that there is a time and a place for resistance. He would be in no state to escape, when the opportunity arose, if he could barely stand.

Laurent calls it maintenance. Laurent says that every bitch should be beaten by it’s master, until it understands its place. Until it wants it.

He will come down soon, Damen thinks. He enjoys making Damen wait on him, but the sadistic bastard wouldn’t stay away long. He couldn’t help himself.

Damen wishes he would hurry. No matter what machinations he has planned for today’s torture, there could be little worse than dangling here, with nothing to occupy his thoughts but pain. He is already exhausted, and the thick, cloyingly sweet scent rising from the brazier beside him is making his head feel cloudy and heavy. 

A part of him is alarmed by it-- suspicious when, every so often, attendants will come in and sprinkle some herb onto it to increase the scent. He knows there is some nefarious purpose to it, but he’s so tired, it’s hard to bring himself to care. He naively imagines there is little Laurent could do to him that he has not already done. 

His scent precedes him; pungent even through the stench of the brazier; clove and orange, and underneath a subtle hint of sweetness. A thick, masculine, a scent that permeates through Damen’s senses in a way he loathes, sliding through him like a knife through butter, making his hair stand on end. The stench of  _ alpha,  _ a call his biology can’t ignore.

Damen tenses, slamming his eyes closed. It’s easier to ignore it when he doesn’t have to see him, easier to pretend he’s somewhere far away from this. It’s a battle between the strength of his conviction and the undeniable urges of his body. He won’t win. He can’t. But Damen refuses not to try. 

Damen hears the heavy, ornate door creak open and closed. He hears the clip of a heel, meandering a circle around Damen’s vulnerable, restrained body. His scent is thicker now up close, headier, filling every one of Damen’s senses. Damen clenches his fists, turns his face away, but it follows him wherever he tries to hide from it. 

It seems to be more intense than usual. His stomach coils tighter in response to it, he can feel sweat forming in the nape of his neck and along his brow. His chest feels tight, breath coming heavy and strained, and there is a dull pressure behind the swell of his pectorals that makes it hard to focus. He can hear his heart thudding like thunder in his ears, deafeningly loud.

He knows why, in the same instinctual way he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

He feels a fingertip press against his breast bone. He shudders, the chains around his wrist creaking as he pulls on them hard. The finger starts to run around his torso, dipping and rising over the plains of his muscles. He flinches, when he feels them slide over the welts from today’s beating, crisscrossing his back. He hears a hum. The scent grows stronger.

“You smell good today.” 

The familiar lilt is like a drop of poison in a glass of sweet wine. Damen feels his hands shake, as he tries with all he is able to stop himself from leaning into the sound. The chains creak a little louder, and the finger presses a little harder into the abused skin of his back.

Damen ignores the infernal, long-silenced thoughts in the back of his mind that urge him to just give in. The sweet call of the creature inside him, desperate to be obedient, to supplicate itself to a monster for the sake of reprieve. Damen has never allowed it to control him. He won’t. But it is louder today. More insistent. 

Laurent moves again, the clip of his heels passing around Damen’s side, coming to a standstill before him. “I do believe Paschal’s potions have taken.”

Damen jerks up at that. He makes the mistake of opening his eyes.

Laurent stands with his arms crossed behind his back, hip cocked as his weight rests on one slender leg. He is beautiful. He always is. His long hair is gathered behind his ears, his pale, slender neck hidden behind a high, dark blue collar that lightens his porcelain white skin. He looks ethereal. Like a fantastical creature; some winter fey come to life. 

But beauty is deceptive, never more so than with Laurent. There is something terrible that lurks beneath. There is no warmth in those pale blue eyes.

He is slight, for an alpha. With Damen stretched up in bondage, Laurent barely reaches his chin. He is pale and lithe, almost delicate, a stark contrast to a typical, more muscular specimen of his kind, one Damen might have cowed to, had he been bound and vulnerable before them instead. But for his scent, Laurent might be easily mistakable for an omega himself. He is nothing like the alphas Damen knew in Akielos, those who he tried so hard all his life to emulate. 

Still, for all his lack of physical intimidation, there is no denying what Laurent is. The man wears his dominance, his masculinity, with a casual, self assured arrogance, the kind that makes Damen’s stomach feel tight. He might lack the physical presence of his peers, but Damen feels no doubt that he could hold himself among them. If not with his fists, then with his wit, his sharp tongue, and his unspeakable cruelty.

Laurent regards him coolly. He reaches out again, extending his long, slender finger under Damen’s chin. He catches a line of drool, leaking out of Damen’s open mouth. He examines it on his finger, with all the interest of a man watching paint dry.

“Those of your… particular nature and rank are often kept on suppressants from an early age in Akielos, or so I have been informed,” Laurent goes on. “Will that make this your first, I wonder?”

Damen jerks sharply against his chains. Their rattling is loud, loud enough to draw Laurent’s attention. His hand darts out, gripping Damen’s chin in a merciless hold, fingernails digging sharply into his cheeks. Damen stills, as Laurent steps closer.

“Behave,” he drawls. “I won’t pretend you’re going to enjoy this, but there’s no need to make it harder on yourself.”

Damen growls, as much as he is able. It’s little more than a watery warble, with more drool sliding out of his mouth.

Laurent’s eyes flash. His nails dig a little deeper, as his smirk stretches a little wider. “By all means,” he says. “Give me an excuse.”

There is a knock on the door then, one that startles them both. Laurent releases his grip and steps away from Damen, wiping his hand on his trousers. “You may enter,” he calls out.

The doors swing open, and the elderly physician walks in. He doesn’t meet Damen’s eyes as he strides into the room, coming to stand beside Laurent.

“Well?” Laurent asks. He doesn’t turn away from Damen.

“I believe the suppressants have been flushed from his body,” the timid man says. “The effect of the herbs should be… much more pronounced.”

“Good,” Laurent says. “And will it do everything I asked for?”

The physician hesitates, for a moment. His eyes flicker to Damen, and then back down to the floor. 

_ Coward,  _ Damen thinks.  _ You coward. _

“Yes, your highness. I believe it will.”

“Excellent.” Laurent gestures, then, to the brazier. “If you don’t mind.”

Damen watches, a cold fear starting to grip him, as Paschal moves towards it. He pushes his hand into his satchel, fumbling around inside, before drawing a small pouch from within. He opens the drawstring and, with a half moment’s hesitation, slowly tips the contents of the pouch into the flame. They sputter, for a moment, turning a strange green colour as whatever herb the pouch contained burns.

Damen jerks harder in his bonds, pulling now with all his might, uncaring of the pain that lances down his wrists as the gold digs in deep. It takes a moment for the scent to reach him. He doesn’t recognise it, and yet there is something about it that seems so familiar. It is sweet, almost like the scent before it, but more intense, almost like sugar boiling in a pot; a sticky, cloying scent that coats his nostrils and throat. He turns his face away, trying to avoid the wafting fume, but Laurent won’t allow it. He steps into Damen, gripping his jaw once again in that merciless hold, and turns his face towards the smoke.

Damen meets his eyes, trying to convey as much hatred and rage as he can towards him, trying to show within his limited power how he refuses to bend, refuses to be cowed. Laurent simply observes, expression utterly sanguine. Damen expects to see triumph in his eyes. Satisfaction. But there is nothing under the surface of those pale, blue depths. Nothing at all.

“Thank you, Paschal,” Laurent says after some minutes has passed, and the cloying stench of the herb has somewhat faded. “You are dismissed.”

Paschal hesitates, for a moment. He looks to Laurent, and then to Damen, opening his mouth as though he wants to speak. 

“Leave.”

Laurent’s tone brokers no argument, and, like the obedient puppet he is, Paschal retreats.

As Damen watches the physician depart, he starts to feel something warm and strange gathering in his chest. The sensation is like tightness, every time he breathes it aches, a deep, muscular pain that throbs with every beat of his heart. He feels a coil of panic slide through him, a cold sweat start to gather on his brow. He doesn’t know what is happening, but he knows that sweet herb has everything to do with it. He wracks his brain, trying to place its scent, all at once so foreign and yet lingering at the back of his mind like something he should know.

He breathes more heavily, his vision starts to blur. He thinks, at first, it’s the panic, adrenaline pumping through him with no outlet to release. He closes his eyes as the world starts to spin. He wonders, incredulously, if Laurent means to kill him.

But then, of course, he hears the click of that familiar heel. He feels the radiating warmth of a hot body beside him, leaning into him. He smells that scent, oranges and clove and that hint of something sweet underneath, more familiar to him now than his own scent, stirring something within that Damen can’t resist. It prickles, like pins and needles over his entire being, his skin feels hot, and he can feel heat pooling in his groin. His stomach feels tight, coiling in strange anticipation.

“It happened faster than I thought,” Laurent says. His voice sounds distant, as though it is floating in the midst of a dream. “I am sure it will be intense, no? It is your first heat, after all.”

Damen whines, the sound of a wounded and defeated animal, and slumps, for a final time, into his chains. His head lolls against his chest, heavy and filled with fog, all thoughts moving like through treacle, slow and sweet and useless. It’s difficult to think much at all, but the feeling of how hot and tight his skin feels, how  _ empty  _ and useless his body is, torments him. He wants something, something… he needs it, but he can’t… it’s just so difficult to…

“I had hoped you’d retain some dignity, but I suppose that’s too much to ask for a bitch in heat.” Laurent steps into him, so close their chests brush. He cups Damen’s chin, tilting his head up. Damen’s eyes blink blearily open, dull and vacant, glossed over. “Can you understand me, bitch?”

Damen blinks, slowly. He understands the words, deep down they make a familiar rage flare inside him, but none of that makes it to the surface. He can only whine, in agonised frustration, as the touch of Laurent’s skin and the temptation of his body make Damen’s skin burn. 

“Have you ever been fucked, omega?” 

Damen can’t remember, can’t recall, it’s so hard to think. He feels Laurent’s hand on his back, curled around his body, cloth brushing bare skin. He feels Laurent’s long, slender fingers travel down, between the supple mounds of his ass, between the crevasse of his cheeks. Damen’s body jolts, a yelp is forced from his lips, as Laurent’s fingers press against the dripping, fluttering entrance to his body.

It is as though the fog in his mind lifts, for a moment. The confusion, the frustration, the desperate, unnameable need that Damen couldn’t place, suddenly makes perfect sense. He is empty, unfilled, dripping and open and ready to be entered, taken, claimed by a deserving alpha, but the only one before him, the only one Damen can think about, seems disinclined to do more than tease and torment him. It leaves him frustrated, disappointed,  _ desperate.  _ He needs this more than he has ever needed anything. 

He presses back into Laurent’s finger, gasping in rapture as it slides inside him. The pleasure is indescribable, making his toes curl as it washes over him in waves. He whines again, pressing for more, but Laurent won’t slide in deeper than the tip of his finger. It is maddening.

“Now you’re starting to get it,” Laurent drawls. Damen can hear the smugness in his voice, the satisfaction. He thinks, distantly, it should make him angry, but the supplicated creature inside him practically purrs with the thought of making the alpha happy.

“I think I could make you beg to be fucked,” Laurent goes on. He wiggles the tip of his finger, sliding it half an inch deeper. “I think you’re such a desperate little whore, I could give you to my men and you’d beg each and every one of them to take you twice.”

Damen shakes his head, incoherent. He doesn’t want to be taken by anyone else, not by some endless parade of alphas with their foreign stench. He wants this alpha, this alpha that smells of orange and cloves, who hurts him more than he has ever made him feel pleasure. He wants everything this man can give him, and only this man. 

“No,” Damen whines.

“No?” Laurent’s finger stills, and Damen sobs at the denial. “My stupid little slut, that isn’t something you get to decide.”

His finger withdraws, and Damen’s breath hitches. His cheeks feel wet, vision blurring through shameful tears. 

Laurent hushes him, voice deceptively soothing. He reaches up, catching a teardrop from Damen’s cheek, and presses it into his open mouth with the finger still wet from his slick. He slides his finger along Damen’s tongue, coating it in the desperate taste of himself, testing the edges of his gag reflex as he fucks his finger in and out. Damen can’t stop his tongue from moving, rubbing against Laurent’s touch, trying to entice him for more, licking through the sweet scent of his own arousal for the salty musk of Laurent’s skin. Laurent chuckles at the desperate display.

He presses his palm flat against Damen’s chest. He cups the mound of his breast in his hand, the muscle taut and the skin itching. Damen whines in distress, not understanding the strange sensations sliding under his skin. Laurent squeezes, just a little, just gently, but the sensation is one of sharp pain. Damen’s back arches, chains rattling loudly as he jerks in his bonds. His chest feels so hot and tight under Laurent’s touch, throbbing with some dull pressure he doesn’t understand but will surely make him burst apart.

Instead, there is something else. Something new. The sensation of wetness, pooling at the tip of his nipple, sliding down the burning skin of his breast.

He makes a confused sound, a horrified noise, and looks down in panic to see what has caused it. He knows what it is before he sees, but he can’t… he couldn’t… it isn’t possible.

Even through the haze of desperate, mindless heat, Damen feels nothing but shame and horror as he watches pearly, white milk dribble from his nipple. 

“No,” he chokes, yanking hard at his bonds as final, desperate denial cuts through him. He chokes on spit, gargling through his gag, “What have you done?”

Laurent snorts, drinking in Damen’s horror like it is something to be savoured. “I have done nothing,” he says, “but aided nature in its course.” 

He squeezes again, harder. It tugs and pulls deep inside Damen's chest, deeper than a touch should ever reach, and despite how wrong it feels, painful even, it makes something in his gut burn with need. His cock twitches against nothing and then throbs, as fresh slick leaks from his open, empty hole.

“Oh gods,” Damen chokes. He feels the familiar numbness of the heat-fog licking at the edges of his consciousness, goading and coaxing him back into a sweet, numb oblivion of apathy, where everything is so much easier. He doesn’t want it, he wants nothing more than to rip his bonds from the wall and then Laurent’s throat from his pretty, pale neck, but Damen is as weak as a babe under the influence of whatever drugs have coaxed this abomination from his body. He can do nothing but hang limply and uselessly, as Laurent milks his heavy breast. 

“I have thought about keeping you like this,” Laurent muses, when it seems Damen has finally ceased his struggles once more. “Paschal assures me the drugs will make your breasts swell heavy and full of milk. Perhaps I will keep you with the other sows, dripping like a desperate, filthy animal in want of relief.”

Damen is horrified at the thought. He feels nauseous at the thought. His cock throbs, and his legs feel weak, at the thought.

“Would you like that, bitch?” 

Damen shakes his head, using the only strength he has left in him. Cold drool spills down his chest, so cool in contrast to the warm heat of his milk. It makes him shudder.

Laurent hums. “What a shame,” he says. “It would have been so amusing if you’d enjoyed it.”

Damen closes his eyes, trying to think himself somewhere very far away, as Laurent continues to massage his breast. His chest and stomach feel sticky with milk now, he feels soiled and unclean as more of it dribbles down to join the puddle at his feet.

He grits his teeth against a whine when, unexpectedly, he feels Laurent’s lips press against his chest. A hot, wet tongue circles the throbbing bud of his nipple, there is the agonising graze of teeth, and then a mind numbing pleasure as Laurent closes his lips around Damen’s nipple and sucks. He feels the milk being drawn out of him in a steady stream, so unbelievably pleasurable his thighs shake, and he feels an impossible orgasm building up deep in his gut.

“Oh gods, oh gods no,” he cries, incoherent through the gag. “No,  _ no.” _

Laurent raises his head, looking up at Damen through his lashes as he pulls back, one tender nipple caught between his teeth and drawn with him until Laurent lets it slip from his mouth, making Damen scream.

“Oh, yes,” Laurent says. 

When Laurent’s lips close once more around him, Damen loses what little control remains to him. His hips jerk, thrusting forward, desperate for sensation against his aching, burning cock, even as they thrust back, seeking something to impale himself on, desperately empty as his hole flutters around nothing. There is nothing to fill him, Laurent will give him no relief, and there is nothing to rut against save the coarse, dark material of Laurent’s jacket, so rough and painful against his burning skin it almost hurts too much to bear. But Damen can’t stop, can’t help himself, not as Laurent sucks harder, harder, teeth closing around him once more, digging into his swollen skin till it throbs and burns. Not when his other hand cups the other neglected breast, squeezes, milks the liquid out of him again and again and again.

Damen is beyond overwhelmed, he feels as though he is losing his mind, but even through the madness he can still smell Laurent, can still sense him in a way that permeates his very being. He knows, deep down in his bones, that Laurent is aroused. He can smell it, the stench even thicker than his own. It is the sweetest scent in the world, so mouthwateringly good Damen feels more drool spill over his chin. 

The beast within him purrs with satisfaction, wanting to give himself over to this alpha and please him. He would want nothing more, in this moment, than to bend over and present himself for fucking.

But inexplicably, Laurent does nothing, nothing but suck harder at Damen’s nipple and torment him further. If he even cares for his own arousal, for the now hard cock in his trousers that presses against Damen’s thigh, he gives no indication. His scent is so pungent, arousal so distinct, it should seem impossible that he has not succumbed to it, given into mindless need and take Damen like he is desperate for.

But Laurent doesn’t. 

It makes Damen feel disgusting. Useless. Vile. He is the kind of omega not even the lowest of alphas would deign to fuck. But it doesn’t stop the twisting, agonising pleasure from building up within him. It doesn’t stop him from whining and begging unintelligibly through his gag till Laurent nips his nipple hard in punishment, making his body jerk.

Damen can’t stem the tide that rises up inside him inexorably. No matter how much he doesn’t want it, no matter how much it makes him want to scream _.  _ Even empty, with nothing but the coarse jacket to rut against, Damen’s body spasms as he comes on a breathless sob; desperate, mindless, aching for something he is steadfastly denied, and breaking apart.

The orgasm washes over him in endless ebbs and flows, an almost gentle roll of pleasure that licks at the edged of almost-enough, but does nothing more than make Damen more unsatisfied, more miserable. It isn’t enough. It brings no relief, but on and on it goes until he can scarcely breathe for the exhaustion of it. As long as Laurent sucks on him, there is no end to it.

Laurent seems to have realised this, with some degree of amusement. He stops squeezing Damen’s breast and rests his hand on Damen’s ass, fingers teasing at the crease and the dripping hole at Damen’s core, a tormenting suggestion of what he might do, if only he weren’t so cruel. 

“You cry so prettily when you come,” Laurent says, when he finally pulls off and lets Damen slump in absolute exhaustion in his chains. “It’s pathetic.”

Damen has no reply for him. Witty quips and barbs are beyond him now. Denial doesn’t seem worth the effort. 

Laurent wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, cleaning the droplets of milk from his lips. He is still aroused, Damen can still smell it, it still slides through him with that same sinister ease that makes every instinct in him cry out to present, be obedient, please the alpha.

“You’ll come to enjoy it,” Laurent says, “eventually.”

Damen looks at him with heavy eyes. He doesn’t even have the strength to glare.

Laurent chuckles, straightening his jacket. He turns, walking over to the far end of the room where his desk lies, papers scattered on top. He sits behind it, glancing over at Damen as he does.

“Let me know when you’re ready to be milked again.”

Damen’s eyes close, and he succumbs to exhaustion.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you so much to my patron, you are a LEGEND and I APPRECIATE YOU xx


End file.
